


Refraction

by mysterioustranger



Category: One Piece
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Porn, Denial of Feelings, Dom/sub, Feelings Realization, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Power Play, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28123251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterioustranger/pseuds/mysterioustranger
Summary: Sakazuki has a bad month, so he gives up control for a night.
Relationships: Akainu | Sakazuki/Kizaru | Borsalino
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	Refraction

**Author's Note:**

> Some time ago, I wrote [a horny little one-shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701362) about Borsalino getting off the idea of Sakazuki rising to power. This is a horny little one-shot about Sakazuki getting off the idea of giving up his power. And so the cycle of fucking continues.
> 
> Many thanks to ~~anyone who thinks writing this was a good idea~~ all the peeps who love this ship, nay, this majestic vessel, but especially to Tiburion and Fourleaves_Clover who are the direct culprits for this beast getting un-shelved.
> 
> Warning: For some talk of near-death experiences in the middle of sexytimes. Also a very brief, very fleeting mention of gun play.

It has been, after all, easier to rise to power than to keep it.

The thought has been haunting him like a particularly irritating ghost for months, perhaps ever since he vowed his title as the latest Fleet Admiral. But on this grey day, since he departed Mariejois and stormed back to the Headquarters, the rumination has taken over Sakazuki’s inner monologue, his pulse pounding in his temples like a war drum.

The elevator doors ding as they slide open, giving him way to the uppermost level of Neo-Marineford. He hears officers’ steps scattering through the corridors like beetles in the face of light. Today, anybody will guess with just one look that he’s ready to send the next person who interrupts his day unannounced running away in tears.

During Sakazuki’s last exchange with the Elders, that damned bunch of politicians – in his head, the word sounds like an insult; they wouldn’t know honour if it danced naked in front of them – have made their stance clear. Protecting their shady management and questionable tendency to tolerate some crime lords’ existences is their number one priority; they will not hesitate to throw him into the proverbial sea and publicly question the effectivity of the Marines, the institution he has given his life to, if it means they'll save face. And, adding insult to injury, Issho’s freehand management of the Dressrosa situation put him in no position to talk back.

_“Shut your insolent mouth, Sakazuki. Your reputation is irrelevant.”_

He adjusts his cigar with a gloved hand, teeth sinking into the tobacco leaf.

 _They want an obedient dog they can unleash on the world on command,_ the thought is so grating, because he knows it’s true; soon it will not only be the smoke from his cigar dispersing into the air.

Justice is not to be mocked, and if it ever was important to his superiors, they are hiding it _extremely_ well.

He passes an ample window on his way to the Fleet Admiral’s main office and pauses to look at the vast ocean underneath. His reflection returns an intense, dark gaze.

The sight of his scar, its ugly fingers spread from his mutilated right ear to the edge of his jaw and cheekbone, flares up his anger again. They dared mention him, that rogue bastard. They dared hide the Kuzan card up their sleeve until they needed a quick reason to shut him down – even two years after having gotten lost to the world, and what a good riddance that was, his former colleague’s shadow is ineludible both in arguments and in the mirror. It bothers Sakazuki more than he would ever admit aloud.

What he calls justice, Kuzan had called insanity. And Kuzan had wanted him dead.

He seethes at the phantom pain creeping up his skull and turns around.

When he enters his office, his rage burns under control, but has been replaced by a sense of gloom. Subtler. More threatening. Mould spreading in the solid foundations of his authority. But he won’t, can’t, allow it to linger. He’ll put himself to action and fill his time and thoughts to the brim with work until they wander far, far away from the catastrophic meeting and from the strange places the mind goes to when it thinks it’s thinking its last thoughts.

 _No more._ He adjusts the coat over his shoulders, a curtain over the subject. 

Towering over his desk and glancing at the couple of untouched reports neatly piled on top, he notices that there is a porcelain tea cup next to them on the wooden surface. He never leaves leftovers.

He glares to the armchair at his left side, beneath a patterned arch. He’d needed to be very lost in thought not to notice the massive man sitting there, snappily suited up in his signature yellow pinstripe, amber sunglasses perched up on his nose. He smiles absently at the newspaper he holds over long, crossed legs, his calf resting over a knee.

Sakazuki stares at him.

Borsalino blinks back.

“Oh! How long have you been _the-reee_ …?” he asks giddily. The way he draws his speech makes him sound flippant and lazy, but Sakazuki has the dubious honour of knowing better.

He throws his head back, takes a deep breath that rises his shoulders almost to a shake, and sighs. Instead of sitting, he leaves the cigar to rest on an empty ashtray and snatches the cup. The whiff of ginger tea greets his nostrils – strong, the root doused in boiling water for too long. An offering for his time. He doesn’t even like ginger, but he’d bet that Borsalino has forgotten about that all twenty thousand times he’s mentioned it.

The Fleet Admiral throws his subordinate a look, not angry but stern, a wall of stone. “I hope you aren’t avoiding work.”

“Oh, I will be out in _no-o_ time if that’s what you want,” Borsalino neatly folds the paper to cast it aside and interlocks his fingers. “But Fujitora’s urgent report landed on my desk instead of yours…, I think the officer who handed it in was _very_ scared.”

Borsalino talks too casually about his peer, but Sakazuki won’t waste time with a reprimand. He gathers some heat to his hand, enjoying the feel of scalding liquid on his lips and tongue as he efficiently scans over the first report. His frown deepens a bit further at every line.

“Now he’s still pushing to end the Warrior Lords,” he mutters, feeling anger at the boldness of that old tiger flare up inside him again. “He’ll discuss his plan with Dr. Vegapunk.”

“How… _independent_ of him,” Borsalino says through tiny lips. He must have read about the way Issho handled the Dressrosa episode and decided to drop any attempts at concealing his dislike. Besides, researching his ability with Dr. Vegapunk for the creation of the Pacifistas had been one of the few things to hold Borsalino’s interest for more than a few seconds – now the focus of attention is away from the light Logia, and a newfound trust between the doctor and Issho will relegate him to a sulking spot in the background.

Borsalino leans forward, his distracted tone betraying nothing. “You seem _unhappy_... Unsettling news, isn't it…?”

“You don’t say,” Sakazuki replies venomously, slamming the report back on his desk. In times where the Marine should be a front unified enough to withstand attacks from below and above, not one single person seems to be doing what they should.

… well, there _is_ one, if the one he’d least expected. It had been perplexing to see that the other Admiral sitting in this room remained committed to the cause through Sakazuki’s first few weeks in charge – not only having crowned himself second-in-command as some sort of thought experiment, but remaining quietly at his side through the bitter victory at Marineford, and the Government's proposition, and Punk Hazard. “This reflects terribly on us.”

“On us,” Borsalino muses.

Under Sakazuki’s fulminating eyes, he smiles slightly, silently. 

He comes dangerously close to breaking their unspoken agreement sometimes. He’d been the first to call the possibility that they might, someday, tentatively, find themselves there. That is no real secret. Perhaps it amuses him to see Sakazuki tense up when reminded that they half-conspired their way to the top of the Marine food chain – however necessary it had been. 

But then there was the _how_.

The other man must have seen something in his expression, in the way he is silently examining the print without seeing it. Sakazuki doesn’t read people outside of the battlefield, but Borsalino seems to live for it. He’s taught Sakazuki that there is a fine line between praise and mockery, between speculating and scheming.

“Oh…, don't you miss being out on the field sometimes, hunting them down in per _son…_?” 

“Better I have no reason to,” when he glances over at the armchair again, his subordinate has vanished, and Sakazuki's jaw tightens.

“... Mmm, yes, that's what you're _suppo-osed_ to say, isn't it…?” His voice sounds close, and when Sakazuki turns around, he sees Borsalino sitting on his desk: long legs stretched between neat piles of paperwork, fingers politely intertwined over his knee, feet resting on the Fleet Admiral’s chair. “I know there's a due procedure… but Justice looks so good in your hands. As it did in Marineford.” 

The level of disrespect is so ludicrous that Sakazuki’s throat almost vibrates with humourless laughter. But there is a pinch in his low abdomen, too, a part of him reacting to a game it recognises.

There are few reasons why Admiral Kizaru ever comes to his office unsummoned, and bureaucracy is not one of them.

“Get off there, Borsalino,” he snaps.

The Admiral lifts his chin and grins, eyes so narrowed they’re almost closed. _Make me_ , he’s saying.

…the last time had been the _last_ time, he’d sworn to himself. Sakazuki’s guard down like never before, he’d let Borsalino stir something so far buried within him that the memory came not without shame.

(But now that he attempted to stir it again… those damn words, he knew how to use them to shut one’s thinking brain down. How could Sakazuki resist hearing that he knew what was right for the world, that he needed to shoot higher, to erupt and shape the earth’s course and surface? How could he resist putting himself in the hands of the only person who seems to see him, who seems to get it, and whose lips feel so damn _good_?)

For one split second, Sakazuki sees himself lunging forward and biting down on the other man's mouth, using his haki if it needs be to seize his incorporeal body in place and take what’s his as fiercely and ruthlessly as he can. 

...but then Borsalino pulls up a hand to draw him closer and touches the scar. Sakazuki removes the intrusion and flinches back to the present, to a terrible day, his muscles stiff with tension, his desk loaded with pending work. An affirmation of his authority is not what he desires – it’s goddamn mockery at this point.

“I don’t have the nerve,” he says. 

Borsalino’s smile falls into a lopsided pout. It occurs to Sakazuki that he probably doesn’t have that many rejections under his belt, but his subordinate’s ego is far from his responsibility.

He crosses his arms and waits for the other man to dematerialize so that he can take a seat, bite down on his cigar, curse his body, and get stuff done.

* * *

Hours pass, and Sakazuki sits at yet another working desk in his private quarters, where he’s spent hours comparing conflicting accounts in the Dressrosa reports and scanning them for details he may have missed. He wanted to push for another couple of hours and keep an eye on some matters that are not his direct responsibility – promotions, strategies, minor budgeting. When he reaches for another swig of cold coffee, his mug is empty.

He frowns at the time. Rubs his nape as he stands up. He’s called a meeting in a few hours, as early as the schedules would allow him. At the window above his desk, an ashen sky smudged with dark clouds has slowly faded to coal. No stars.

The motto of Absolute Justice is framed where he sees it first thing every morning, bringing the embers of his motivation to a blaze. It gives him the push he needs to carry himself next door and under the shower, to peel himself from clothes and let the lukewarm water trickle down his back and the rigid shapes of his muscles. He would allow himself to stop clenching his jaw in thought, to stop craving nicotine for one second, if he knew how to.

He looks down at the petals and flames forever swirling on the canvas of his skin. Finds himself remembering how fond Borsalino is of them, how he’ll run his fingers through them at the slightest chance. His nostrils flare at the thought.

Saying he hasn’t been craving the touch would be lying. Years ago, whenever Borsalino came at him with his ideas, he could fill his time with training and meditation until the arousal became so unbearable that it spilled into his dreams, but the work he’s doing now is no way to offload tension.

The idea of becoming the Fleet Admiral had once been exciting - the stack of reports on his desk is anything but. Besides, what Borsalino doesn’t understand is that, no matter the little games they’d played, what Sakazuki has always been after is not power, it’s purpose.

It had seemed so clear to Sakazuki back at the battlefront, as Edward Newgate's last words hit the world like a hot wave, that he was a paladin of order in an era rapidly escalating to chaos. Becoming the Fleet Admiral was this simple fact’s natural consequence; right upon being informed that he’d been suggested for the role, he had vowed to upkeep that duty to his last breath, friendships and hardships be damned.

If fate or nature had awoken that surge of absolute certainty in his blood, then his life had meaning, and so did all the suffering in his years.

He dabs himself dry and returns to his room. Lowers the lamplight at his bedside. His furniture is scarce, pragmatical, everything placed where it will be needed. And every silhouette looks different under the dim, orange glow.

He slides under his bedsheets, sitting against the pillows, and looks ahead in wait.

Like clockwork, the sound he’d expected rings between almost bare walls; something between the sound of a laser beam loading and a razor sharpening. 

“I thought so,” Sakazuki says.

Borsalino grins sheepishly, light specks drifting away from him like flotsam. 

“What can I say…?” He's still all suited up; the folds of his jacket are perfect, so is the knot of his tie. At least one of them is good at entrances. “I’m _su-uch_ a predictable man…”

To have him at such a short distance feels alien, intimate. Borsalino hasn't sneaked into his room since they were two young headstrong cadets and the playfighting and strength-testing became something else, something sensual. They never really stopped dueling with words or with their bodies.

Sakazuki jerks his head back, arms crossed firmly. "You interrupted me at work and now you expect to be entertained in return?”

Borsalino shakes his head solemnly.

“Noo, noo, Fleet Admiral,” he says. “Quite the opposite…, I’m actually here to take the responsibility away from _yo-ou_.”

The handcuffs clack, metal on metal, when he produces them from his pocket and lets them dangle.

Caught off guard, Sakazuki gulps through the dryness in his throat.

With Borsalino standing at the end of his bed, Sakazuki realises the true height of his broad, slender figure. It occurs to him that that is the sight many have seen before their defeat. A charming voice telling them they are arrested. A foot stomping down their attempts to escape…

He feels suddenly conscious of his own nakedness and, for some reason, an unwanted wave of pleasure courses through his stomach.

“This has got to be a joke,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Hmmm, _well_ , I can’t take over your duties...” Borsalino sits at the edge of the bed and slides out of his jacket and toward Sakazuki, his two hands splaying on the mattress. He places his knees at the sides of Sakazuki’s legs. When he tilts his head, his smile reminds Sakazuki more than ever of the feisty young man he’d met at the North Blue over three decades ago. “...but I can take off _some_ of your burdens. It’s been a lifetime of being, aah... _under_ you, after all. Tonight we could do justice...”

The Fleet Admiral’s jaw tightens at the provocation. Borsalino’s eyes narrow mockingly as he leans over ever-so-slightly, enough to brush his fingers over the fabric covering Sakazuki’s thigh and play it off as an accident, as if he knew that his Fleet Admiral's groin is twitching in protest at the years of lacking physical contact.

“Shut your mouth,” Sakazuki mutters.

He hates himself for budging. No sense in postponing the consequences of a choice he’s already made.

When Sakazuki draws in reluctantly for a kiss, Borsalino only bites his neck. Anger courses through his veins like heat erupting under the stone surface. His shoulders flare red. He feels young again.

One of Borsalino’s hands is suddenly jerking Sakazuki’s arm behind him, the other groping at the tattooed muscles at his torso. Sakazuki tilts slightly to the side to allow the cold metal around his thick wrists - the anger and arousal don’t wane, but the liquid fire inside him does. 

"Hmmm... It's much better if you put these _o-on_ , dear Sakazuki," Borsalino says thoughtfully. As if there was a choice. "I don't want to burn again…"

"You deserve to get burnt," Sakazuki breaths into the other man's ear and sees goosebumps spread through his neck.

Sakazuki feels a knee tracing his cock until it’s pathetically hard. He hates that it's so easy for the man on top of him to dig that primal insanity out of him. He swallows a grunt behind his teeth, pushing down on his immobilised arms to thrust his hip upwards. As expected, Borsalino removes the contact at the first sign of Sakazuki wanting it. 

He leans to the side and reaches out with a hand between Sakazuki's shoulders instead, guiding him to bend over until the chain tugs, intertwined with the bedpost behind him. When Borsalino rises on his knees again, Sakazuki realises the small distance between his face and Borsalino’s groin. A hand tilts his chin slightly upwards, the gentle fingers stroking his beard before he shakes them away. The feeling of display flutters inside him.

“You’re terrible,” he mutters.

He looks up to Borsalino, who looks impossibly pleased with the sight and with himself. Under Sakazuki’s deadpan gaze, he rolls his shoulders back and starts unbuckling his belt slowly.

His cock is slender, slightly curved and almost completely erect between those long tanned hands of his. He squeezes himself in anticipation, and dares to turn something Sakazuki has told him a few times against him - 

“I heard you’ve earned _a-all_ you have… How about being released…?” 

Sakazuki bares his teeth. At the prospect of blowing Borsalino, he is momentarily at a loss; he can count with his fingers the number of times he’s done that to anybody. When taking him in, his tongue feels clumsy, its width pulling his mouth open in an unusual way. He'd replayed the scene of what happened at the former Fleet Admiral’s office a few times in his mind's eye, but instead of taunting Borsalino as he’d done to him back then, Sakazuki lunges forward and takes as much of him as he can in his mouth, feeling the friction course from the surface of his tongue to his throat and back again. 

Borsalino's knees almost give in. Sakazuki feels a hand gripping at his short hair. His subordinate is startled and horny. Good.

"G-go _easy_ ," Borsalino stammers out as he pulls away. When Sakazuki defies him, the other man phases away; the yank of metal immobilizes Sakazuki's wrists as he tries to lunge forward. He scowls.

Borsalino has retreated, and although he's loosening and folding the cuffs of his shirt as casually as ever, the sweat at his brow betrays his surprise. He grabs himself with one hand and the side of Sakazuki's head with the other, gently pulls his mouth open to slip two fingers inside, to trace circles against the surface of his tongue, to gently flick against it. He’s cooling down. _Of course_ he won't let himself come fast - you'd think that was the goddamn point, but if there is something he does not care about, it's efficiency.

Sakazuki tries biting down on the intruding fingers, but they blink away to reappear caressing his cheekbone. 

"Mmm, that's not _fair_ …" 

Borsalino finally seizes Sakazuki's mouth softly, his beard wet and hot around it, to allow himself in again. But this time he will set the pace, and to try and follow it is exasperating. He strokes his cock now against Sakazuki's tongue, now against his inner cheek, sliding halfway into his throat when he thinks it won't be expected and grasping at his nape to assure he stays in place. And, after a few minutes of push-and-pull, Sakazuki starts finding it pleasant to feel Borsalino react - his back arched, his chin high, gasps and little utterances escaping his lips. His own neglected erection pushes against the covers with a need that's taking over his senses.

Annoying as it is to become a toy to be used, he finds he’s gradually stopped thinking about this situation in terms of the new depths of disrespect that are being brought out and starts to accept his role in it, irritation waning in favour of growing, instinctual pleasure, intertwined at the core with his sense of duty. 

Borsalino starts thrusting into him faster, with increasing tension. He's close. So he stops. As he pulls out once more, he lets out the same ' _mmm_ ' he utters when he is interested in something, and Sakazuki has no words for what he feels when he hears that - something between smugness and endearment. He kills the thought fast. 

Now Borsalino pulls up a knee to Sakazuki's chest, the soft, playful imitation of how he may kick an enemy down. The Fleet Admiral shifts the weight to his back, handcuffs cool against his wrists and the weight of his dorsal muscles. A gasp escapes his throat when the other man removes the covers and wraps a hand around his cock, squeezing at it, tracing circles about its tip with his thumb. The contact comes in so desperately needed that Sakazuki curls forward, a groan escaping his lungs. Precum drips onto both of them, and Borsalino pouts down at his stained shirt. 

"Oh, _no_."

“It serves you right,” Sakazuki mutters, looking away from the light in disdain when Borsalino corrects that grievance. The other man tilts his head. 

"You're bold for _some-ooone_ in your position…"

The Fleet Admiral curses himself internally. His body hasn't forgotten its hunger for contact, the need jolting from the lower part of his abdomen into his erection, but he'll stay bound in agony a thousand times before he'll beg.

Borsalino knows. He looks criminally gleeful as he retreats to slide the shirt and tie off his body, discards them aside not without care. It occurs to Sakazuki that, with his mouth shut, he's actually easy to look at, his broad, slender body and the boyish glow in his smile. After a short pause, Borsalino removes his sunglasses too, and they clack on the nightstand. 

Then, still leaning on his knees, trousers sitting at his waist, he lifts up his hand, concentrating a beam on the tip of his finger. It unnerves Sakazuki for a second, as though a firearm were being held over his head. But, although Borsalino can be reckless and dangerous, he's also his most trusted general, and he only wants to enjoy the view - one he knows is rare and reserved for him.

When the touch lingers over his facial scar, Sakazuki grits his teeth and recoils. 

“Don't.”

“Mmmm… But I really like it…” Borsalino’s nonchalant tone is charged with subtle, genuine interest.

Sakazuki pulls a knee close to his chest, a defensive barrier between them both.

Commanding Borsalino to not touch his scar feels revealing in a way completely unknown for him, and his excitement tips into vertigo. He'd like to be able to dismiss it as easily as Borsalino always does, but it's a split second too late. He forces himself to look at the other man, half conscious of what now lies in plain view for him, for them.

That this is not the mark of a victory, and he doesn’t wear it with pride.

That the ghost in the mirror, for all days to come, is not that of the iceman grasping through his molten stone as he looked into Sakazuki's eyes and wrapped a hand around his brain, but of the last feeling that came before he gained the sense to struggle again, the last threads of will and consciousness being cut off and giving way to _relief--_

…now he's expecting a mocking remark that will ruin this, and part of him wants to hear it, too, so that it all will be over, his most shameful weakness pried out of him and relegated to uncomfortable silence forever.

But no trace of Borsalino's usual sarcasm is to be seen. Only the curious arch of an eyebrow, and a slight frown. Maybe, deep down, he fears what could, may, would have been. Maybe.

(The thought sends a little heated chill through Sakazuki’s breast and the organ within it, hidden in thick layers of skin, muscle and bone with no magma to quiet it down.)

When Sakazuki realises that both have been simply looking at each other for a string of seconds, he breaks eye contact. He next feels Borsalino's lips on his tattooed shoulder, the tongue finding and tracing the crevice of another scar, and the warm breath when he speaks. 

“Mmm… this is a sordid state of affairs. If the world knew…” 

Some of Sakazuki's reservations evaporate. “Well. It does not.”

“Ooh, _well_ ,” Borsalino mimics his tone, a smile audible in his voice. “It's been a _lo-ong_ time in the shadows, Sakazuki…” 

“Shut your-” but his reply is cut short when Borsalino flinches away from him as fast as he only does in battle and is suddenly sucking at his erection, its veins thickening with renewed strength as electrical craving tenses up every nerve in Sakazuki’s body.

He immediately starts thrusting into Borsalino’s mouth despite his reclined position, the soreness at his arms and shoulders be damned. But he knows it’s not enough. His thinking mind has trouble focusing, instead retreating and giving rise to his primal self, and that part of him wants to be touched - on his face, and neck, and shoulders, all of them burning, craving. It feels only the sweet resistance of Borsalino's throat closed in around him, and the handcuffs, warm under his weight, erasing his fire and his will to struggle and giving him the freedom to be just a man for once. 

Mixed in the sensory chaos, he vaguely hears a hand fumbling around the nightstand and the warm, sleek feel of what he presumes to be lamp oil quickly spreading against his inner thigh. Just as his rational mind realises this, and as he realises he doesn’t care as long as he can keep pushing towards release, Borsalino jerks his head upwards with a wet pop and Sakazuki bites back a groan with his name, his erection lifting against his own abdomen, seeking the touch that’s been sadistically removed. 

Sakazuki wants to glare back at Borsalino, but he’s sure he only looks desperate by now. His jaw has worked so much it hurts. Besides, when he squints up again from the reclined position, his subordinate is rubbing his fingers together as if he suddenly were distracted away from the horny, naked, sweating, displayed body of his Fleet Admiral, and wondering what makes oil oily.

The dumbest grin in the world is painted simply across his features. It makes Sakazuki want to choke him. 

“Mmmm… You _know_ what would _rea-ally_ be scandalous…?” 

He runs the side of his hand between Sakazuki’s buttocks. The bound body tightens at the thought. 

To say he’s never wanted that before is an understatement. In fact, he has refused the slightest ideation that he could ever want it. But, before Borsalino, it had never occurred to him that he could want to be with another man, either, as much goddamn sense as it had turned out to make. And the handcuffs have begun making sense, too. 

When he opens his lips to protest, they feel frozen.

"You idiot," he hears himself say, his voice surprisingly ragged. "Do it all the way through or don't."

Sakazuki tightens his jaw. Part of him feels vindicated at Borsalino’s reaction: for a man who is only ever mockingly surprised, he has sure widened his eyes and leant in to inspect Sakazuki’s face for any sign of deception. Sakazuki only nods curtly.

As expected, Borsalino does not need much more convincing.

He idly strokes himself against Sakazuki's thigh, that mischievous brain of his calculating his next move, and guides Sakazuki's leg against the lean stretch of muscle at his side. The unnatural angle tugs at his arms, but a jolt of pleasure spreads to his cock at the smallest promise of contact. Borsalino hums idly before slipping his erection between Sakazuki’s buttocks, firmly nudging its tip against the space beneath his balls and slowly finding his opening. The oil on his skin eases the first contact, making it almost pleasant. His lungs, filled to the brim and tense, decompress slightly. Borsalino smiles at him and leans in to place a kiss on his trembling grimace.

He thinks Borsalino will keep weighing him gently with a finger, enjoying his usual push-and-pull. It soon becomes obvious that he won’t.

There is no hesitation in the first thrust, and Sakazuki's own hands scratch at the mattress at the sharp pain. But Borsalino doesn’t enter him at once; he does it steadily, patiently, slowly sinking his way into him. Sakazuki’s body is commanding his arms to pull down in defense, his muscles to yank at the metal and fight, but for once the decision is not his. Borsalino has him now, as much as he'd like to forget that it's him attached to _that_ , what’s barging into his body and rattling it from head to toe. 

Borsalino seems to be enjoying the view, stopping to marvel after every small push, his eyes full of light and heat. He has placed his hands at Sakazuki's sides, one holding his arm, the other rising up to his muscular neck and stroking down to his abdomen. 

“I can stop,” he says. “Anything you _wa-ant_ , Fleet Admiral…"

But Sakazuki's lack of any biting remarks is an answer in itself. This raw mix of pain and pleasure feels right in a way that nothing else quite did. 

Sakazuki grimaces at the room above Borsalino's shoulder as his subordinate sinks completely into him. Upon seeing his proclaimed motto he narrows his eyes. He bears the pain like he bears the weight of his responsibility at daytime, but there is something at its end, an incredible electricity that floods his core with want. Borsalino’s hand is finally stroking him back, the same soft rhythm with which he's fucking him, and he can't help but welcome the contact and helplessness and the desire, all the human limitations of his body - if there is anything like justice, this is it, but he stops his thoughts before he can taint his ideals any further and fucks into Borsalino's hand instead, unable to help the pushing his ass harder against him too, and from his pressed lips escapes a groan.

The other man retreats, withdrawing his hand to support himself. His eyebrows are knitted when he looks at Sakazuki. 

“Is this… Are you okay…?”

“This is nothing-” Sakazuki utters, surprised at how ragged his own voice sounds.

Borsalino peers into his eyes intently. He knows a lie when he hears it, and this one has his mouth turning slightly upwards in triumph. It's the look of someone for whom nothing is off limits. It flares up Sakazuki's anger again. The word _more_ wants to pry its way out of his mouth so badly, it’s almost painful to bite it back. But there is no way his pride will relent to that. 

So he asks for it the other way he knows. 

“Is this- _hn_ \- all you've got?” He mutters through gritted teeth, and Borsalino narrows his eyes fondly, sardonically, puts a dominant hand on Sakazuki's shoulder to support himself as his pace picks up. Every push into Sakazuki is an interruption, a word more groaned out than spoken. “This- it’s not- real pain. All that- _mph-_ screaming- when I was inside you? You’re- _you-_ are a damn lightweight-”

“Ahh… _we-ell_ …” it's Borsalino's jaw working now, and he's smiling in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. “I’m only being gentle with _yooou_ …”

His next thrust is ruthless. Sakazuki shuts his eyes. 

It's that spark again, that buried ecstasy they're stirring. Before Borsalino can pull out again, Sakazuki is sneering and wrapping a leg around his buttocks, pushing him inside at a slightly different angle, setting the pace to be brutal and quick until they both have lost themselves. 

Borsalino whispers something in his ear. Sakazuki doesn't hear what he's said, doesn't care. It's just his words, sweet and drawn out and insincere, and soon they have been replaced by the only, exquisite sound of flesh slapping on flesh. Acts speak louder anyway. 

(When he looks at Borsalino, he feels as though he’s staring at the most dangerous being in the entire blue world, with the power to do this to him. With the will to fill his body and his mind with light, where there should be nothing but liquid stone and burning belief. Sakazuki can't bear to see that.

…and if he will ever feel otherwise outside of this tiny, secret space that exists only between the two of them, he vows to annihilate the feeling, to rip himself open and cut it clean away by sheer willpower.)

Borsalino thumps against Sakazuki once again, much harder, the sweat-drenched forehead collapsing against his tattooed shoulder. The next push is hard too. Then gentler.

Sakazuki has won.

He looks away and shakes his shoulders. 

"Let me go," he husks out, but he’s already sliding against Borsalino’s palm, its soft friction on his cock too much to bear. It’s taunting him, but the sensation is too present, too steady to be agonical anymore. It’s Sakazuki’s relentless, steady pace, Borsalino remembering the way his body works. The squeeze becomes tighter, one with the rhythm of his hips, another arm wrapped around his neck to touch the veins burning underneath. He stays. He stays…

... until, not even a minute later, the palpitations are expanding from Sakazuki’s groin into his body, and he realises he has been holding his breath for what seems like minutes only when a shattered moan bursts from his mouth and he's coming, spilling into that hand, the thunderous pulse swallowing everything else--

…and his head is free, filled to the brim with blissful nothing.

...

… he doesn’t know when it happened, but he must have tumbled over, because his head is drenched against the mattress.

And the handcuffs must have been unclasped, because the soreness and the bruises against the nubs of bone at his wrists are healing with every palpitation. He moves his fingers, stretches his arms. It’s going almost too fast.

When he opens his eyes slowly, the view is way too inclined. He gets up and narrows his eyes to re-focus his sight within the lamplight. Borsalino standing, clothing himself, the only speck of colour in the middle of his white and black room. His trousers sit at his hips unbuckled, flat abdomen soon to be hidden behind the shirt he's finishing buttoning up, and an unlit cigarette hangs from his lips. 

When he sees Sakazuki looking at him, the gravity of his expression blinks into a smile.

The Fleet Admiral swallows. There's a dry lump in his throat, and there is something else there, too, that waits to be said and will remain there forever. He wouldn't, couldn't, put it into words anyway.

"I don’t… I don't smoke in here," he grunts finally, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers and letting his hand linger there. 

" _Hmmm…_?” Borsalino puts the collar of his shirt in place. Then he grins, an actual grin showing teeth and all, indistinguishable from the real thing. "I am not going to… I will not overstay my _welcome_.” 

“Right.”

“There’s _so-o_ much to do. And life’s _short_ …”

Sakazuki looks up at him. Entertains his own _what if?_ for one split second. 

But he cannot turn his mind off again, and the long distraction is starting to awaken guilt. Borsalino takes one last, long look at him - what he sees, Sakazuki couldn’t say for sure, and then vanishes in a burst. He’s everywhere, filling every corner in the room, blinding light on his pale fire, and then gone the next second.

It's time to be back in his reality now, alone. In his body, on his bed, the feel and smell of something that didn’t happen.

In a couple of hours, they will be discussing the navy's state in this changing world, and he will command sternly, and admonish, and tear everyone a new one if he has to, if it means that Justice prevails in this endless, absurd struggle between politics and ideals. When he is that leader, feared and admired, more an icon than a person, there can be nothing that draws him back. No trace of weakness that might plant the seeds of doubt in the minds of his soldiers. Nothing that trumps the absolute truth. He's given up everything else in the world. 

And Borsalino will be sitting at his side, fingers interlocked, giddy even in the face of catastrophe. Waiting for the next great move.

Waiting at his side with that tiny smile.


End file.
